


Evolution

by Quamquam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, PWP, Sort of? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:05:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quamquam/pseuds/Quamquam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Castiel and Dean's realtionship evolved.<br/>PWP sort of but also not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evolution

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Over-used trope, D/S, completely plotless.  
> It's a PWP but also not I don't know how to explain.

Evolution   
Dean couldn’t pinpoint the exact time when it all began, probably because the road winded so slowly that there was barely a perceptible start, but he thinks maybe it was inevitable all along and everything was just leading up to it. There wasnt really a moment when it all changed difinitivley. He thinks he remembers the first time Castiel appeared to him in a motel room, unprompted and undemanding, simply looking for company. Dean offered TV, beer and food but Castiel refused all three and just asked if he could stay a while.  
Dean complied.  
He had never had a fear of touching Castiel, a friendly or congratulatory pat here and there but never because he thought the angel needed comfort. Until Castiel arrived in his room again, this time looking completely down trodden and Dean reached out and touched his shoulder, comforting him.  
The frequency of visits was sporadic, sometimes Castiel would appear two nights in a row, sometimes with weeks in between. Dean couldn’t remember exactly when Castiel started to lie down with him properly on the bed. He just remembered looking over one day at Castiel, on a night where the beds were slightly too small for two men and realising that he couldn’t remember when it started, but that it was somehow normal.  
Lying together on a small single bed involved shoulder touching, naturally. A logical evolution was a pat here and there, maybe a squeeze on the leg.  
The hand-holding was strange.  
Again, Dean didn’t really remember the first time his hand had touched Castiel’s, either in comfort or by accident, but it became commonplace without Dean questioning it.  
Dean and Castiel held hands. That was all. It sounded weird when Dean thought about it, which he didn’t often, but he began to notice less and less when Castiel’s hand would clasp in his. He no longer thought it weird because the whole situation was too strange for a tactile relationship to really change anything so he just never mentioned it or tried to explain to Cas that it wasn't 'normal.' It was just another idiosyncrasy in their strange relationship.   
He wasn’t expecting it to progress much further, but when it did he realised he wasn’t surprised. The first time Castiel’s mouth met his skin was just a peck on the cheek, and Dean thought little of it. He didn’t analyse it, even when Castiel left shortly after, without a verbal goodbye. He didn’t question it when Castiel greeted him with one again the next time he visited. Classic European tradition, he thought briefly, though he knew it wasn’t that.  
That was why he wasn’t surprised when Castiel’s mouth met his own for the first time, not clumsy per se but very inexperienced. It was on a strange border between too tender yet too formal, until Dean brought his hand up to rest on Castiel’s shoulder and the angel relaxed under him.  
The tongue was unexpected however, when it entered Dean’s mouth but not unpleasant. It wasn’t really a dance nor a battle as he’d so often heard described. It was cautious yet slightly lazy, as if they’d done it a hundred times and thus easily slipped into their routine. It wasn’t every time though, and sometimes they would still just hold hands for comfort. When Castiel was gone, Dean missed him. All of him; he missed the taste of heaven on his lips, the warmth in his hands and the press of skin on skin.  
He worried. Castiel was off fighting somewhere, his battles too dimensional for Dean to really comprehend let alone help. The only thing he could do was be there to provide a comfort that only a physical touch would provide and provide it as best he could.  
He didn’t feel used.  
He felt useless. But Castiel never asked anything more of him. Most of these episodes happened in complete silence. He let Castiel lead slightly, allowing him the choice of whether the TV should be on or not, whether their fingers or tongues intertwined and whether he left without a goodbye or not.  
Dean does remember the first time they were kissing and Castiel flipped him onto his back and laid into him like a porn star, because Dean was surprised. Not because of what was happening, for he had predicted the progression, but the skill that Castiel had somehow acquired. Dean didn’t question it, he just let it happen. He wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to give as good as he got. It wasn’t until the third time that he reciprocated properly.  
That changed things. Because it drew a harsh, breathy moan out of Castiel, who drew back, seemingly in alarm at his own noise. Dean ran a hand through the angel's hair, a reassurance that it was okay. Castiel murmured something that may have been an apology. Dean murmurered something that may have been a command not to apologise. Their lips met again and Castiel was blushing by the end of it.  
So the paradigm shifted again. It wasn’t a bad thing, but it added a dimension to their relationship which hadn’t been there before. The mental barrier was broken and the only barrier that remained the next time was the barrier of their pants, which separated them as they rubbed against each other like desparate teenagers and Dean would have been embarrassed if it hadn’t been so important for them to feel close.   
He would never forget the first time he saw the angel come.  
Castiel seemed surprised and relieved at the same time as he shuddered out a small cry, which was still far louder than any noise before and an embarrassed blush filtered his cheeks. Dean had led him through it and Castiel gave him a look that seemed to say thank-you and sorry at the same time. Dean comforted him wordlessly, hand in his hair and another on the angel's shoulder.   
He disappeared very soon after and Dean was left to finish himself. He didn’t blame the angel for freaking out. He prayed to him the next day, explaining that it was alright and that Castiel need not feel shame. The angel appeared again the next night and this time there were fumbled hands as Castiel tried to learn to return the favour. This introduced Castiel’s first bit of bedroom talk, the slightly out of place ‘You look beautiful like this,’ which happened to coincide with Dean’s elated cries and climax and whether that was a coincidence or not, he wasn’t sure.  
The first time he heard the angel curse was when Dean wrapped his lips around the angel’s cock and gave him pleasure which Castiel swore he had never felt before.  
Dean began to feel a slight anticipation about the next step, which he knew was inevitable but would occur and an unpredictable pace. He pleasured himself less now Castiel was learning the ways of reciprocation, but when he did, he found himself thinking of blue eyes looking at him, his hands in dark hair and the tan flash of a trenchcoat falling to the floor. He didn’t admit it to himself explicitly. He couldn’t remember when it became more than helping a friend and evolved into what Dean wanted too.   
The first time was, as predicted, unpredictable. Castiel had not appeared for a while and when he did, he looked tired. Physically weary, yes, but also what Dean could only think of as slightly fed up. The evening started out as one of their more platonic. There was a trashy soap, two bottles of beer and interlocked fingers and touching thighs but after half an hour Castiel turned Dean’s face towards his own and whispered ‘please’ and Dean knew exactly what he meant.  
Dean’s experience with men was limited and Castiel’s experience with anything was worse and this led to a messy, awkward first time. Dean had asked how Castiel wanted to do it and Castiel hadn’t understood the question until Dean explained and then Castiel looked almost embarrassed.  
‘Can I?...To you?’ he has whispered into the night and Dean nodded. He did not admit for fear of repercussions, but he himself was aware that this was how he'd often pictured it. He handed over control to the least experienced of the two, and though it may seem counterproductive, it was the only way he figured this could work.   
Castiel had wanted to spend a long time making sure Dean was ready, Dean had wanted to gratify Castiel quickly and, though he didn’t speak it out loud in case it was too much, he himself was just as desperate for it as Castiel. Eventually they met in the middle and there was a slight burn to begin, which eased into pleasure surprisingly quickly.  
Castiel didn’t last very long, but Dean didn’t mention it in order to hide his own embarrassment at barely being better. Castiel stayed slightly longer than usual but still left Dean before the night was over, leaving him to contemplate what had just happened. He thought about what his reaction would have been if someone told him at their first meeting that in just a few short years, the angel would be balls-deep in his ass. He wondered if he would have actually been that surprised. He thought if Castiel moving above him, panting into his mouth, hands roaming his body and face, Dean below whimpering and praising and hard as granite and was momentarily surprised at how natural it had been. It was always leading to this. 

After that, the flood waters were open for everything.  
Sometimes, Castiel would come in angry at something, hair and clothes ruffled and annoyed, maybe even a scar or bruise on his face that he hadn’t yet healed. Then he’d take his anger out on Dean in the best way possible, manhandling him onto the bed (though never enough to cause damage,) and Dean bounced against the pillows, looking up as the angel shed his tie and his coat melted to the floor and he would align his whole body along the length of Dean's, his angel strength pinning him by the wrists, sometimes tying him up with his tie or whatever was lying around, so Dean’s wrists were restricted to the bedpost. Sometimes Dean would wriggle because he knew that Castiel needed disobedience in order to command and Dean secretly loved it when Castiel would bring out his angel of the lord voice and dictate which position he wanted Dean in and Dean would scramble to obey.   
It started fairly standard, for angry sex, sticking to the bed, but it wasn’t long before Castiel began to take advantage of motel facilities and walls and Dean found himself pinned under the angel to different furniture in various shades if discomfort, all with one thing in common, which was Dean's aching hardness as he submitted to Castiel like he had never before while Castiel ploughed into him, no teasing, no messing around and Dean would moan like a whore and he knew Castiel loved it and he was more than happy to comply.  
Castiel would litter him with tiny bruises and hickeys, from the length of his neck to the swell of his thighs and connect them together with an artistic finger. He would scratch his fractured nails down Dean’s back or front, making matching trails of red which bloomed under his hands and Dean would hiss out, panting for more. If Castiel drew blood a few times and this only made Dean moan harder, then who was going to know? He remembers one time in Indiana, bent like a porn star over a table, Castiel pulling him back by the hair, exposing his neck and the mother of all hickeys forming on his shoulder as Castiel bit ino him. He filed that memory for a later, private times.   
Vauge, nonsensical moans and whimpers from the angel evolved into Castiel developing a mouth that Dean could only describe as filthy. He never thought he’d hear anything like the words which dripped like syrup into Dean’s ears and he loved it, loved hearing them shiver though his spine and to his cock. Castiel would grab his hair and pull his head back, whispering obscene things until Dean was whimpering and begging for the angel's cock.   
He would never forget the first time he slipped and accidently called Castiel ‘Sir’ and the angel had groaned louder than ever before, bit a harsh bruise into Dean’s shoulder and grabbed his hips so hard that Dean felt it for a long while after. He saved that name for special occasions and revelled in the reaction it drew out.  
Castiel would always offer to clean his bruises and scratches each time.  
At first Dean agreed, not wanting to arouse Sam’s suspicion, but soon he preferred to keep them, enjoying seeing the small mementoes when he undressed in the bathroom and saw the imprint of Castiel’s mouth on his neck.   
It wasn’t always like that though. Dean didn’t like to label anything about what they shared, but Castiel could only be described as a switch and Dean was happy to bend. Sometimes he’d arrive, tired and broken and Dean would try to heal him.  
Castiel would fall to his knees in submission, large eyes staring up at him, begging silently and Dean would assume control seamlessly. He guessed Castiel was tired of being in charge, of being powerful and needed to allow someone to command him.  
And Dean would. He’d order Castiel to suck his cock, and Castiel would comply, thick lips closing around it and sucking it with a ferverence of battle. He’d turn his gag reflex on and choke around Dean’s length, with Dean’s hand fisted in his hair and praising him.  
Dean just let his mouth run wild, ordering Castiel onto his back, spreading him open. He wasn’t sure when he started calling him his dirty little whore, a good little slut for him, it was just interwoven in his vocabulary and Castiel would moan, responding by opening his legs wider and living up to the nicknames. He’d beg Dean for bruises and scratches and Dean would mark him up, pretending in his mind that they Castiel couldn’t just evaporate them like they were nothing.  
They’d finish hard and explosive, then come down panting and laying next to each other, maybe an arm slung over the others chest or legs intertwined but intimacy wasn’t prevalent. Although, Dean did often think in these times that he was no longer just doing this for Castiel. He needed it too – a release, which was guaranteed, if unreliable and soon Dean began to wish that Castiel came more often.  
And sometimes, it was like neither of these. Castiel would arrive and take Dean’s mouth in his, tender and exploratory, hands cupping his head or pressing his neck, almost cautious and unsure.  
Then they were equal in their little bubble of sanity, protected from the outside world. It didn’t matter who topped because neither was dominant. The first time it was like this, Dean was surprised when Castiel was neither rough nor submissive, but gentle in his touch, touching Dean’s face lightly. His bedroom talk took on a new vice, calling Dean beautiful and Dean would return the sentiments, a hand in Castiel’s soft hair as they sank carefully down on the pillows, whispering nothings into each other’s ears, whimpers dulled by the leisure of their contact.  
Dean would look into Castiel’s eyes and would sometimes be physically clentched by the emotion within them, and they’d kiss, mouths open, sloppy yet graceful in its simplicity. Kisses on the neck meant to convey affection, not to mark and the slide into each other slow, like they had all the time in the world to share their love.  
Because that’s what it was. Loving.  
It took a while for Dean to admit that. But he could hide from it no more when Castiel took his face in his hands from above and touched their foreheads together, his eyes closed and moving so carefully, as if Dean was a breakable object that he had to look after with his life and Dean almost tearing up because he wanted to hold the angel and never let go.  
Castiel would often stay after these times, longer than usual. They’d remain in the bed, satisfied and curl up together, lips brushing soft skin of shoulders and hands, eyes looking into eyes as if there was no sight that held such importance as the one before them.  
The connection was almost visible. Dean imagined tiny strings of glowing light entwining them, which were broken when Castiel slipped Dean off him and left with an apologetic smile. Dean remembers the first time he begged Castiel not to leave when he felt the angel’s bones shuffle. He felt pathetic, but wrapped his arms round his counterpart, almost too tight and splayed his hands across Castiel’s back, trying to cement him there, just for a moment longer. It was the he realised that this really wasn’t just about Castiel anymore, this was for both of them and sometimes Dean just needed to take.  
He hadn’t expected Castiel to stay all night.  
It was the best morning of his life when he awoke to find the warmth of the angel still next to him. Dean had curled instinctively into Castiel in the night and they were tangled like the Gordian knot of fucked up dependent relationships. Castiel told him that he looked beautiful when he slept and Dean nuzzled into his neck and silently told him in a prayer not to ever leave because he loved him.  
He decided the squeeze on his shoulder meant that Castiel heard and the soft peck on his forehead meant he returned the feelings and Dean felt their relationship reached its final plateau of development. It had taken so long for Dean to realise what he had felt deep-down all along, but he finally had. Endgame.


End file.
